It's Monday morning. The law firm is located in one of the newer office towers on Brickell Avenue in the financial district dominated by high-end law firms and accounting firms.
I take a deep breath as the elevator whisks me up to the 50th floor. The doors open directly into the lobby, where the law firm decor exudes a timeless elegance. The receptionist sits behind a wide mahogany counter that gives the appearance of finely crafted furniture.
The art in the reception area is tasteful and classic and looks like it belongs on a museum wall. When I glance across the reception area, I expect to see a large conference room with a panoramic view. Instead, I see a wall adorned only with a few recessed niches that hold vases with fresh flowers.
Odd. Several of my law school friends ended up at fancy Philadelphia firms in towers much like this one. Without exception, the interior walls were glass, and my friends would joke that it was so anyone getting off the elevator would see a conference room full of lawyers in expensive suits conducting depositions or holding closings on real estate deals. It conveyed the message that important business matters were being handled by top attorneys.
I wonder what kind of message my grandfather wants to send with his wall, closing off the view of whatever happens behind it.
I walk toward the reception desk, surprised that my stomach feels a little queasy. I remind myself that I can turn right around and walk out the door whenever I want. I still have a job waiting for me back in Philadelphia, and I have three months to decide where I belong.
I'm here because there are things I want to know, things my father has refused to discuss with me. It was my decision to come here. I'm in control.
Before I have a chance to introduce myself, the receptionist looks up and smiles at me. "Good morning, Ms. Reese. I'm Jenny. Let me just let Martina know you're here."
I frown. "It's Jones," I correct her. "Hadley Reese Jones."
"Of course. My apologies. I just assumed..."
I let her voice just trail off while I wonder why my grandfather never bothered to tell the people who work for him what my actual name is.
"It's fine," I reassure her, remembering Martina's offhand comment about how Mr. Reese would fire her if she failed in her mission to take me shopping. I certainly don't want Jenny, who looks very sweet, to be worried about offending me and risking her job security.
Jenny is wearing a headset and apparently has already made an interoffice call to Martina, because she says, "Martina will be right out. You can take a seat if you like. Can I get you coffee or tea?"
"I'm fine," I say. Before I can sit down, Martina appears from one of the hallways.
"Welcome, Ms. Jones," she says. "Let me show you to your office."
"Why so formal?" I ask the person I got ridiculously drunk with on Saturday night as we head down the hallway.
"It's required," she says in a low voice. "We can be informal if we're in a private office with no clients around, but in the common areas, the staff call the lawyers Mr. or Ms., and everybody calls Mr. Reese Mr. Reese."
I snort under my breath. "Well, I'm not calling my grandfather Mr. Reese."
I thought this kind of formality went out twenty years ago. A thought flashes through my mind that things will be different when my grandfather retires and I'm running this place, then I catch myself up.
Do I even want to ever take over this law firm? And is that really what my grandfather intends?
The atmosphere is hushed as we walk past offices. The polished cherry flooring continues down the hallways, but is covered by tasteful runner rugs, which help maintain a hushed atmosphere. Our high heels make no noise on the carpeted surface.
Instead of turning the corner at the end of the hallway, Martina opens a door and gestures for me to go inside.
"Here we are," she says.
I stare. There are floor to ceiling windows on not one but two walls that look out over the Miami skyline, and the space is about five times the size of my office in Philadelphia.
"You're not serious," I say.
"Oh, don't mind about the furniture. That's just a placeholder until the office designer meets with you."
"The furniture?" My head is spinning. "No, I mean, this is a corner office."
"Well," she says as if she's stating the obvious, "you are going to be heading up the firm's new criminal law section."
I'm already worried other lawyers who've been here for several years are going to resent me. Doesn't having a corner office make that worse? It's like I'm living in a different world. Back in my old office, I was happy if the printer just worked.
Before I can tell her that extravagant offerings won't automatically warm me to my grandfather, my phone buzzes in my pocket. When I pull it out, Max's name flashes across the screen.
Strange. I thought he was in meetings all day.
I hope he's not expecting us to pick up where we left off last night.
"Max," I say as I connect the call, "I can't really talk right now. I'm at the office."
"Hadley, I have a question for you," Max says.
"One sec," I tell him, and turn to Martina. "Can we do the tour later?"
"Sure," she says, giving me a look I know means she'll be asking about the call later. "Just don't forget, you have a meeting with your grandfather at 9:00. He likes people to be on time."
"Thanks," I say. She gives me a little wave, and I turn my attention back to my phone as I walk into my office.
"What is it, Max?"
His voice is calm, but there's some sort of undercurrent in it that I don't understand.
"Why didn't you tell me Andrew Reese is your grandfather?"
I don't know what question I was expecting but it certainly wasn't that one. And just like that, my stomach gets that funny feeling again.
"Oh. Well, no reason, really. It just didn't come up." I ease into the executive chair and wonder why I feel vaguely guilty. As if I'd been hiding something.
"It just didn't come up? Not even when I mentioned that I was familiar with the law firm?" Max persists, and yeah, there's a definite edge to his voice now.
Why would he care who my grandfather is?
"Max, we were two strangers chatting on a plane. I didn't mention it because that would have led to more questions about my family, and I really didn't want to talk about it." I'm using my most reasonable tone of voice, like I'm in front of a jury trying to convince them that my client's actions made perfect sense.
The silence on the other end of the phone is a little troubling.
"Besides," I continue, faltering a little but pushing on, "you said you don't have any business dealings with the firm. Max, why does this matter?"
"Let's just say there's a history between your grandfather and my father."
Well, that's news to me. But it also occurs to me that Maxwell Bennet wasn't exactly forthcoming about his own family situation.
"Yeah, about your father," I say. "When you showed me your ring on the plane, you allowed me to assume your father had died."
There's an intake of breath. "You've been Googling me," Max says.
I glance over at the door to my office, wishing now that I'd closed it behind me. Although there doesn't seem to be anyone occupying the other offices in this hallway, so not much chance anyone will overhear.
I lower my voice anyway.
"Apparently you've done a little checking around about me as well, since you know Andrew Reese is my grandfather."
Max's voice is cold. "I don't typically volunteer to strangers I meet on a flight the fact that my father will be spending the rest of his life in a federal prison. It's not a particularly good icebreaker when I'm flirting with an attractive woman."
He sounds annoyed, but he is just as guilty as I am of withholding information.
"And I didn't have any reason to tell you who my grandfather is," I tell him, with as much indignance as I can muster. "What exactly happened between the two of them?"
Now I do get up, walk across the room, and close the door firmly, taking a deep breath. Am I ready for whatever he's going to tell me?
Max's involvement in illegal activities might just – I'm hoping – be rumors and speculation. But his father is a different story. And since my grandfather apparently never ventured into criminal law until he hired me, what could their connection be?
"There's a history there," Max says again. "You want any more information than that, ask your grandfather." Max pauses. "He never mentioned anything to you about it?"
"Max," I say, "I've never even met my grandfather. So, no, he's not talking to me about some history with your father." I take a deep breath. "I don't know very much about my grandparents. And what I do know, I don't like."
"Then why are you here, Hadley?"
"I'm here," I tell him, "because this job was an olive branch. It's the kind of opportunity that wouldn't ordinarily come for another five or ten years in my career. But more than that, I'm here because I want answers."
"Sometimes you never find the answers you want, and you just have to let things go."
I get the feeling he's not talking about my situation but thinking of something in his own past. I'm already figuring out, though, that Max only says what he wants to say. There's no point in trying to pry more information out of him.
I straighten, walk back to my desk, and sit down again slowly.
"If that's what happens, fine," I say. "But my grandfather is the one who approached me."
"If he hadn't, you wouldn't be in Miami," Max says, "and that would be my loss."
This comment puts a grin on my face as the tension eases out of my shoulders. I guess we are done being annoyed with each other. Which is a good thing, since it's hard to maintain this level of annoyance when I'm still feeling all satisfied from that bout of phone sex last night.
"Since you are here in Miami," Max continues, "it looks like I will need your assistance on that matter I mentioned on the plane involving one of my employees." He pauses. "For now, you can just keep my name out of it when you discuss it with Andrew. I'll be paying the bills, but a man named Ramon Suarez will be your client."
I reach for the slim laptop on my desk, not even sure if IT has set it up yet. I pick up a pen instead and find a yellow legal pad in one of the desk drawers.
"Do I need to take notes now?"
"No," Max says. "I'll send you the pertinent information."
"Okay." I lean back in my chair. "What kind of case is it?"
"Domestic violence."
It would have to be that. Domestic violence ranks right up there with animal abuse and cases involving children on the list of criminal cases I least enjoyed defending. But it's all part of the job. Everyone is entitled to due process and a vigorous legal defense, regardless of what they have done or are accused of doing.
"Not my favorite," I admit to Max, "but I handled plenty of them in Philadelphia. What can you tell me about it?"
"Ramon beat up his girlfriend."
"Allegedly," I point out.
"No, he's guilty."
"He told you that?"
"He told Gabe. Which is the same thing as telling me." He pauses. "One thing my employees don't do is lie to me. I don't tolerate it."
He says it matter-of-factly, and his words send a little chill through me. I'm sure he just means he'd fire them if he caught them in a lie, but I admit my mind, for just a few seconds, goes to darker places.
"So," I say, trying to get my head back on track. "What is he – what are you – looking for as a best-case outcome here?" And I'm hoping he'll be realistic, since he just told me he knows his employee is guilty.
"A plea deal that keeps him out of jail."
I tap my pen on the desk, considering. "Does he have any prior offenses?"
"No." His voice hardens. "Although I suspect it may have happened before, but his girlfriend just didn't report it."
I suspect he's right about that. In my experience, these situations have typically been escalating for a long time before it actually gets reported.
I brace myself for some ugly details. "How bad are the injuries?"
"She has a black eye. Her wrist is sprained. Some bruising around her ribs, but nothing broken."
"Okay, that's good news."
"Good news?" Max sounds startled.
"It's going to be misdemeanor, not felony charges," I explain. "I can probably get him a withheld adjudication, as long as he goes to anger management classes and does community service and keeps out of trouble."
"That's acceptable." His tone is clipped, and I imagine him nodding his head.
"I really hate these kinds of cases, though." If I ever get to the point that it doesn't bother me, it will be time to shift careers.
"Not as much as I do."
"You know, it probably won't work." I think it's only fair to tell him.
"The plea deal? But you just said-"
"No," I explain, "the plea deal's fine. I meant what probably won't work is the anger management classes, the threat of harsher penalties if he has a second offense. It's a pattern, Max. Guys like this don't stop, they escalate."
"But you still defend them."
"Well, as a public defender you don't get to pick and choose your clients. As a private attorney I don't have to take every case."
"But you'll take this one. As a favor to me."
"Yes, I'll do it." My gut clenches a little as I remember another case, just when I was starting out. "I don't feel great about it, or about what might happen to her because I keep him back out there on the street. But I'll do it."
"Hadley." Max says. "He won't repeat this. Trust me."
"I don't how you can be so sure."
"I've taken steps to ensure it."
"Did you or Gabe talk to his girlfriend? Convince her to leave him?"
"That, among other things."
"How cooperative will his girlfriend be?"
"Ex-girlfriend," he corrects.
"Max, the statistics show that most women in this situation go back to their abusers, usually multiple times before they finally leave for good. There's emotional dependence, and often economic dependence as well."
In the case that still keeps me up at night sometimes, my client refused a plea deal, swearing his wife would never testify against him. He was right. She recanted her police report at the last minute, and my client was found Not Guilty. His wife later told the state attorney that if her husband went to jail, she and her kids would have been out on the street.
Two weeks later, she was back in the hospital again. And that time, she didn't make it.
"Not this time," Max insists.
I'm dubious, but there's no point arguing with him about it.
"Will she interfere with me negotiating a plea deal? Push the State Attorney's office not to settle for no jail time?"
"She'll do what I tell her."
"She'll what?" My voice goes up nearly an octave. Now I'm confused.
"Her name is Ashley. And she works for me, too."
"I don't understand what's going on here."
"It's simple. When she didn't show up for work for a few days, Gabe went over there to check it out. As soon as he saw her, he called me. Another thing I don't tolerate from my employees is abusing women or children. But just because I instructed Ashley to file a police report doesn't mean I want them to lock Ramon up and throw away the key. He's a good employee. Completely separate from this."
My head is spinning a little now. Max had the person arrested that he's now hiring me to defend him?
"And Ashley?" I ask. "Why are you so sure she won't go back to him?"
I remember everyone had been sure in that other case that the victim would leave her husband for good. If she had, she'd still be alive today and her kids wouldn't have ended up in the foster care system.
"Ashley has a new job with one of my other companies," Max tells me, "and a new place to live. She won't be spending any time in Miami. I've removed any temptation for this relationship to continue."
I'm stunned. "Do you just control people's lives like they are little pieces on a chessboard?"
Max's voice is even, but I get the feeling he's starting to run a little low on patience. "Is there a more appropriate outcome for this situation you want to suggest? Or will you do your job as a criminal defense lawyer and negotiate a plea deal for Ramon?"
Something about the whole thing troubles me, but I can't really put my finger on what it is. And Max is right – this is an appropriate outcome.
"I'll do it. I just like to know all the facts. Not just what someone else thinks I need to know."
"I operate more on a need-to-know basis," Max tells me. "Sometimes having too much information can be dangerous."
While I'm puzzling over that statement, I look at my watch and realize that I'm about to be late for my grandfather. And that's not how I want to start things off with him.
"I'm sorry, Max, I have a meeting. I have to go."
Before hanging up, he reminds me that he'll call again tonight. And he expects to hear not only how my first day of work went, but also another of my fantasies to add to his to-do list.
As much as that prospect distracts me, I'm still wondering what exactly he meant by too much information being dangerous as I tidy my things and head down the hallway toward my grandfather's office.
Dangerous for whom?
* * *
The door is open when I arrive at his office five minutes before nine. I stand there for a few moments looking in. My grandfather's sitting at his desk, but facing away from me, staring out at a stunning view of Biscayne Bay. I know what he looks like, though, from the photo on the firm website. He's a distinguished man, still handsome despite his 70 some years, with piercing blue eyes that you can't help noticing.
Eyes the exact same color as mine.
His hair, unlike mine, is salt and pepper gray, what remains of a thick head of dark hair that he must have sported in his younger days.
When he doesn't move, I tap lightly on the door frame.
"Excuse me," I say. "You wanted to see me?"
"Punctual," he says, still facing away from me. "I like that."
He turns then, and his eyes widen as he just stares at me, an emotion I can't identify flashing in them before the shutters come down again. He sets the coffee mug he was holding onto the desk, and to my surprise his hand trembles slightly. He controls it so quickly I wonder if I imagined it.
"I saw the photos," he says, but more like he's talking to himself than to me, "but it still didn't prepare me."
And I have a good idea what he's talking about. I've seen photos of my mother at my age. This is the age she was, in fact, shortly before everything happened.
I see my mother every day.
All I have to do is look in the mirror.
I step into the office, shut the door behind me, and walk over to the desk, taking a seat at one of the visitor's chairs facing him.
He has a commanding presence. I imagine junior lawyers in the firm fear his censure, and yearn for his approval.
Both are irrelevant to me. I'm here for answers.
There are two things I want to find out right now from my grandfather. First, why did he contact me now after ignoring me all these years? And what happened between him and Max's father that Max refuses to tell me?